


a little courtesy

by shae (5H4E)



Series: hane [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 12:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8249746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/5H4E/pseuds/shae
Summary: Logically, she has no real reason to care – but she wants his attention, his time, and it’s simply not fair that she should get none of it, when he gets all of hers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Alix.

He’s working on some essay or another; of _course_ he is, she thinks, he _always_ is. Molly supposes she should not care so much – _logically_ , she has no real reason to care – but she wants his attention, his time, and it’s simply _not fair_ that she should get _none_ of it, when he gets _all_ of hers.

And – like – is it really so _unreasonable_ of her to expect for a little courtesy?

She hovers at his side, reaching out, flirting with the idea of touching him. She wonders if he’d jump if she did. He’s not at all focused on her – she wouldn’t even be surprised if he’d forgotten she was there. Which is hurtful in itself, but especially so when she’d gone to such lengths to sneak in, in the first place.

Alistair’s not supposed to have people over – certainly not _girls_ – it distracts from his study, he says (his _mother_ says) and even though his eyes had been wide and mouth agape when she’d appeared on her broom by his window, he’d been quick to unlock it for her and when he helped her inside, his hands had rested on her knees and it all felt very _forbidden_.

So, they’re just friends, _technically_ , but her tongue has been down his throat, and everyone says she’s got a crush on him, and whilst she’s not about to concede that suggestion just yet, she’s not going to deny they have a slightly strange relationship, but she’s in his room-slash-study in a rather short skirt and _he’s working on an essay_. So, perhaps she’s misread the signals.

“Are you going to stand there all evening?” He asks, suddenly, without looking up.

 _Well_.

“I… no?” she hedges, because honestly? What the _fuck_ , Alistair? She coughs, muffling the noise with her hand, but Alistair reaches out with his free hand, and he’s gripping her wrist, and she’s saying his name, and he’s pulling her closer without even fucking looking at her, and he’s pulled her onto his lap.

And, honestly, _what the fucking fuck_ , Alistair?

“Are you going to _ignore_ _me_ all evening?” She finally quips, before wriggling in his lap, trying to get comfortable as she sits across his legs.

He shifts, pausing whatever he’s writing as his other arm curls around her waist to hold her in place sharply. “ _Don’t_.” He says, and he _still_ hasn’t looked up from his paper.

Which is just… great. Molly can’t quite believe she _somehow_ managed to delude herself into thinking that any interaction with Alistair was anything _close_ to the stuff of romance, or anything _other than_ the mental and emotional equivalent of running headfirst into a brick wall - into forgetting that Alistair fancied himself as some kind of _Byronic hero_. Which is just great.

She’s snapped from her reverie by his arm - the one around her, moving - and she thinks he’s withdrawing it so that he can go back to his work.

But his free hand shifts upwards instead, and comes to rest at the nape of her neck. He threads his fingers through her hair, seemingly absentmindedly, and Molly’s rather uncertain of what to do, because _this_ is new.

She fights to suppress a shudder as his nails scrape gently at her scalp, and she has to momentarily squeeze her eyes shut, because Alistair has a _thing_ for hair pulling, it seems. She opens her eyes, trying to subtly glance at Alistair’s face.

He’s staring at his essay, eyes flickering as he reads with furrowed brows, and maybe he’s stressed, because he’s making little circular motions, feather-light, against her scalp. But, she notes, there’s the subtlest hint of a smile on his face.

It’s – nice, she thinks. Intimate. She likes talking and making him squirm but this is good, too. His skin is slightly cold, just enough to make her shiver – just slightly – as he runs his fingers through her hair.

She shifts, leaning back to rest slightly against his chest. “What’re you working on, anyway?” She asks.

“An essay,” is his response. She can feel it reverberate against her as she leans against him. She does not fight the sigh. Like pulling teeth.

“Is it… interesting?” She tries again. He _shushes_ her, softly, and she can feel his chin gently guiding her head towards the crook of his neck, and he rests his head against hers as she finds herself curling onto his shoulder.

“Enthralling.”

Molly bites her lip, and closes his eyes as his nails lightly scrape against her skin, because technically, she can’t complain, since she did want his attention, and she supposes this is Alistair’s way of balancing interacting with another human being with his self-flagellating ostracism from general humanity in pursuit of world-domination levels of intellect.

That said, she’s not all that keen on his being more preoccupied with an _essay_ , than _her_.

“How much longer is it gonna take?” She tries, again. Put the pen down, is what she means.

“A while.”

She pouts. Un-fucking-believable. She can’t see his face anymore, but she wouldn’t be surprised if Alistair was smirking. He was a dick.

Pursing her lips, she cranes her neck to face him, and plants her mouth on his throat, and, _yeah_ , they’re _supposed_ to only be friends, but they’ve made out before, so, _really_ , how is this any different? He stiffens, slightly, and then shifts underneath her, but she can hear the scraping sound of pen on paper and she blows against the mark she leaves out of sheer fucking _spite_.

He makes this _noise_ when she scrapes her teeth against his skin, and she has to press her legs together momentarily as she’s taken by surprise because _fuck_ , she’s never even _thought_ about what kind of _sounds_ Alistair might make, she was just trying to be an asshole.

A highly thirsty asshole; but an asshole nonetheless.

She’s kissing his jaw, her tongue trailing across his skin, when his fingers resume their work in her hair, pulling harder now. She resists gasping by biting him, and thinks - fuck _you_ , no, really, _fuck_ you – as her hand slides up to grip his hair, and he doesn’t react at all until she tugs at it to get better access to his jawline, and that seems to be the final straw.

Alistair puts down the pen, slowly, carefully, and moves to rest on her legs, fingers resting tantalisingly close to between her thighs. The touch is relatively safe, all the same. He’s keeping a safe distance from the hem of her skirt.

She wriggles, slightly, trying to get more comfortable, and Alistair hisses,

his hand slowly sliding up her leg until his fingers start to disappear under her skirt.

“ _What_ are you-?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing?” Molly breathes against his jaw, cheeks staining red as she flushes, looking away from his hand sliding between her legs. Embarrassed. She’s nearly trembling and he hasn’t even _touched_ her yet.

“You _clearly_ have a lot of pent up energy. I should _take care_ of that.”

**Author's Note:**

> I tried writing Molly's perspective. Um.  
> She's got it so bad for Alistair and is an absolute fucking mess at dealing with that. They're both thirsty af.


End file.
